The Power of Love
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: How I wish 3x03 had ended. Fitz comes to see Liv, and she lets him in - at least for a little while.


**I published this little drabble on Tumblr yesterday, but forgot to post it here.**

**So, Fitz coming to see Liv would have been unrealistic? Well so is 90% of the show. So, this is how I wish the episode had ended. (Song by Gabrielle Aplin).**

**_Dreams are like angels,_****  
****_They keep bad at bay,_****  
****_Love is the light,_****  
****_Scaring darkness away._**

* * *

Her ears are ringing. She turns again, buries her head deeper into the pillow, but the dull buzz is still echoing inside her head, drowning out any and all coherent thoughts.

She could have died today. She could have died. She could have been gone, reduced to nothingness. To red mist. That's what they call it. Because, that's all that's left. Her life, all that she is, disappearing in a haze of red. A person reduced to a blood scatter on shattered windows.

She thought of him. As she lay on the dusty floor, deafening silence pulsing through her eardrums. She thought of him. And she wondered, if they, one day could have been happy. He's an idealist, and she's a pragmatist; he believes in the power of love and she believes in power; he wears the white hat, and she never will. And she's done things, things that haunt her dreams, that loom in the shadows of her consciousness when she's awake. She's done things, things he cannot imagine; she is damaged. Maybe, in another life, another reality, in Vermont and with four kids; maybe if she were different and he were perfect; maybe. As the dust settles and she drifts away, she dreams, of babies and jam, and a time and place where he can love her openly and she can let him.

She turns again. Her body aches; the soreness spreading from the very marrow of her bones, through the strained muscles, to the bruised skin. But that's not the pain she feels. That's nothing, compared to the tightness in her chest that's making it impossible for her to breathe; the overwhelming finality of a simple reality – she wants him and she needs him.

Ring. And she can't tell, not at first, if it's in her head, but then there's another one – doorbell. She pushes the blanket off her body slowly, and finds her way to the door though the darkness. She sees the cerulean blue, the blue that takes her breath away; that instantly eases the pain in her chest. She leans her back against the door and inhales; she contemplates not letting him in, making him leave; but she doesn't have the energy to fight him; she's tired of fighting. She needs him. She twists the lock, and turns the handle, swinging the heavy door open.

"Hi." She says with a small smile.

He exhales sharply, letting out a breath that was lodged in his throat, "Hi."

She steps to the side, to let him in, and smiles to Tom politely. She closes the door and darkness fills the room once again. He turns the lamp on the small table on, familiar with her apartment. She smiles. He seems at home; somehow, against all odds.

"You shouldn't be here." She says it, but her tone is different than before; she doesn't sound cold, she doesn't sound angry; she sounds relieved, almost happy.

"I know," he says, as he unbuttons his heavy woolen coat, "but I needed to see you." She just nods her head, with a small smile. "You nearly died today Olivia."

He sounds hurt. She wishes he didn't. She wishes he was angry, because she's used to playing the defensive; she wishes he was yelling, because she can yell too, she can argue, she can moot. But no, he, he sounds hurt. His voice is almost a whisper, it dissipates in the warm air; disappears in the space filled with things they need to say.

"I'm sorry." But she's not sure what she's apologizing for. For her fearlessness, or for the recklessness – are they the same? For the arrogance? For thinking she's invincible? She's sorry, but the sorrow, it's too new, too complicated; regret and guilt intertwined, interwoven. It's unfamiliar. A little bit like love.

He just nods his head, and smiles wistfully. "I should go," and he puts his hands in his pockets and hangs his head – an image of a broken man, "I just wanted to make sure you were OK." He walks towards the door, his every step echoing through the charged silence.

"I'd like you to stay." Her voice is, now, barely above a whisper. It startles them both. The desperation in it, the plea. "I," she says shakily, twisting the hem of her cashmere sweater with her slender fingers, "I… can't sleep. I can't fall asleep. I just, I… Please stay with me." And her voice breaks, a small crack in the walls she's spent her entire life building up.

He crosses to where she's standing and hovers above her for a moment. He touches her arms, lightly, like they're the most delicate things. He runs his hands along them – up and down, his touch sending chills down her spine. He steps closer, until their bodies are almost touching, and she can feel his heavy breaths, she can inhale the familiar scent. His hands trail a soft line from her elbows to her low back, then up her spine. He pulls her in, slowly, his arms wrapping around her – like a shield. He's barely touching her, yet he's all around her. And she lays her head on his chest, and he rests his chin on top of it. He whispers, "One minute." And she just nods, rubbing her cheek on his soft sweater. Their breaths fall in sync, they become steady, even, calm. Their bodies relax, melt into each other, until they're one – until she doesn't know where he ends and she begins, until the heart beating inside his ribcage becomes what's keeping her alive. They're one.

"Come on." And he tries to step away, but she holds on to him, her protests muffled by his chest. "Livvie, let's go sleep." She looks up and smiles. She takes his hand, only three of their fingers interlaced; but it's enough, it's just right. And she guides him to the couch. He takes his coat off and lays it on the armchair, and he slips his shoes off, before he moves the blanket that was covering her body to the side. He lies down, his back against the back of the couch. She lies next to him, her head resting on his arm, her forehead touching his chest. She wraps her arm around his waist, and their legs are entangled. He runs his hand up and down her back.

"Tell me about Vermont."

"We live in a big house, by the lake. And there's an orchard in the back. Apples. I'm the mayor and-"

"And I make jam." And they both chuckle.

"And you work as a DA. And, yes, on warm Autumn days, you make jam in the garden." He pauses and inhales her breath; she closes her eyes and inhales his scent. "Lea, Lea is the eldest. She's smart. A brainiac. She's just like you. The looks, the stubborn streak, the smile that I can't resist. Noah and Lily are twins. Identical. They're impossible – always in trouble. They're funny, and whip-smart, and drive you crazy sometimes. And Lana, she's the baby of the family. She's quiet, a wallflower. She's the only one with your eyes. The warm, warm brown."

He can feel her arm relax and her breathing slow down; he looks at her closed eyes and smiles.

He closes his. But he can't sleep. No all he sees is the red mist.

* * *

**Let me know what you thought :)**

**Also, I tend to post drabbles on my blog a little more frequently than here, so if anyone likes these one-shots, there's usually more of them on my blog. **


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